


Around the World

by Laylah



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Drunk Sex, M/M, cocksucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-13
Updated: 2008-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No, it’s true,” Dune insists. “I bet half the campus would blow you if you told them to.” He hears the words coming out of his mouth way too late to stop them. “I bet half the house would.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Around the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiwikiwi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwikiwi/gifts).



> I...look, sometimes you need a stupid frat house AU, that's all.

This is a fucking awesome party, and Dune likes to think that after six months at AXM he knows an awesome party when he drinks his way through one. He started the night in his room, which was Ireland, so he had a good Jameson buzz on before he even started heading down the hall. And by now he’s been to most of Europe and Japan and Russia—does that count as Europe? he can never remember—and he’s hauling himself up the stairs, holding onto the handrail and hoping it won’t pick tonight to finally come the rest of the way off the wall, on his way to Ladd’s room. America.

Most guys he thinks would use that as an excuse to just have cans of Bud, or something, but Ladd’s too hardcore for that. “Dune!” he says, toasting with his bottle of Jack Daniels when he sees Dune come in the door. “Welcome to America, Dune.”

“Thanks,” Dune says, weaving his way across the room, past the other assholes who’re hanging out in here. Ladd’s on this couch that he got some of the guys to carry up both flights of stairs for him, and he sits sprawled across the middle of it like it’s a throne. He makes enough room for Dune to flop down beside him, though, and ask, “How are things in the good old U.S. of A.?”

“See for yourself,” Ladd says, and hands him the bottle. “How’s the rest of the world?”

“I swallowed a goldfish!” Dune says triumphantly. “In Japan. It was drunk. And then I drank it. So it was drunk again.”

“Clever,” Ladd says admiringly. “Now drink some whiskey to get the taste out of your mouth.”

It’s really not that bad, not like he could even taste the goldfish through the sake it was swimming in, but Dune doesn’t say so. Ladd wants to drink with him, and who’s he to complain?

They spend most of the rest of the night finding things to toast and passing the bottle back and forth until it runs out. Ladd’s a lot bigger than he is, but Dune’s keeping up okay. He might not win any boxing trophies but he has a world-champion liver.

So somehow he winds up being the one to hold Ladd up, instead of the other way around, when they get up to make a tour of the house and kick out the last of the party stragglers so they can lock up and go to bed. Ladd doesn’t let go, though, just steers Dune with him right back up to his room, and he doesn’t act like he’s about to pass out or anything. He’s hit his second wind—or third or fourth, maybe, this late—and he just keeps talking, like they’re going to stay up till dawn.

“And I think,” he says as he lets go of Dune and sways unsteadily for a minute before he reaches for the hem of his t-shirt, “she would have come up here with me if her friends hadn’t dragged her off.” He’s talking about some little blond girl—aren’t they all little blond girls?—who left early. He invited her, it sounds like. “I think she likes me.”

“Ladd,” Dune says, stating the obvious, “ _everybody_ likes you.” Well, maybe not that asshole Stanfield, but what does he know?

There’s probably a clever answer to that rhetorical question, but Dune’s watching the way Ladd’s shoulderblades do this thing when he takes his shirt off, so.

Ladd looks back over his shoulder. “I knew I kept you around for a reason,” he says.

“No, it’s true,” Dune insists. “I bet half the campus would blow you if you told them to.” He waves a hand at the hallway and hears the words coming out of his mouth way too late to stop them. “I bet half the house would.”

If Ladd doesn’t kill him all the way, the other guys will finish the job when Ladd tells them why he started.

Except Ladd is just watching him, almost smiling, but not quite. Fuck. He looks like that right at the start of a match, right before he puts his mouth guard in. “Just half?” he says. He flops down on the couch, his arms over the back of it, bare-chested. Showing off how fucking ripped he is.

“Well, you know,” Dune says. Drinking makes him stupid, and not scared enough. He can see it happening but doesn’t think he can stop himself. “They’re guys, right? So—”

“How about you?” Ladd asks. “Which half are you in, Dune?”

“Jesus,” Dune says. He looks away. “You can’t just ask a guy stuff like that.”

“Dune,” Ladd says, and it’s his crooning, scary, you’ve-done-something-right voice. Dune looks back at him and he’s dropped one hand to the crotch of his jeans, rubbing slowly like he’s in a gay porno. “Blow me.”

He’s going to die, that’s all there is to it. Either Ladd’s going to beat him to death, or he’s going to die of the sheer hotness.

“Ladd,” he says, and he’s going over there, fuck, he really is, “I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s not like I’ve ever—”

“It’s not rocket science,” Ladd says. “Or are you hoping I’ll say I’ll go easy on you because you’re a virgin?”

“I’m—” He can’t even _answer_ that, Dune thinks, because now he’s derailed thinking about that, Ladd turning him over the arm of the couch with his pants around his ankles and—

“Don’t tease,” Ladd says. “It’s not nice.” He’s unzipping his jeans. His boxers are AXM red. “Come here.”

Dune gets down on the floor in front of the couch, between Ladd’s spread legs, and he’s still pretty sure he’s going to die. Maybe this is the hazing he never got when he joined. Maybe—

Ladd Russo has a really big dick. Dune thinks he’s not surprised, figures it makes sense when Ladd’s larger than life every other way he can think of. He leans forward a little, not sure what to do with his hands, winds up bracing his weight on one forearm, his elbow pushing down into the couch cushion between Ladd’s thighs. His hair falls in his face when he leans down to swipe his tongue across the head of Ladd’s cock.

He’s really fucking doing this. Ladd’s cock barely fits in his mouth when he stretches his jaw as wide as it’ll go, and that sort of kills him a little already. Then Ladd rests one broad hand across the back of his neck and pushes him down until he’s choking on it—fuck, it feels like that took barely any of it, and already Dune’s flinching back just on instinct.

“You can do it,” Ladd tells him, and lets him pull up part of the way—until the ridge of the head is just past Dune’s lips—but not quite back off. “Come on. My boys are good at what they do.”

Dune moans, because it’s about the only sound he can make with his mouth stretched wide and Ladd’s cock pressing down on his tongue. He shifts until he can get his hand on Ladd’s cock, too, holding onto it while he tries again. Girls are always doing that in pornos.

It helps, he thinks, keeps him from going too far down even when Ladd rocks his hips a little. He’s fucking Dune’s mouth. Jesus. He’s fucking Dune’s mouth and it’s uncomfortable and hard to take and it’s also hot. Dune wonders if Ladd would get pissed if he jerked off while he was blowing him, or if Ladd would think it was flattering.

He debates it for about ten seconds, and then there’s this stroke where he tastes salt against the roof of his mouth—precome, he thinks, because Ladd’s not stopping, not acting like he’s done—and he thinks, I am sucking Ladd Russo’s cock and he’s going to come in my mouth, and he reaches for his fly with his free hand.

Ladd hums at him, fingers tightening a little on the back of his neck. Flattering is the right answer after all. “Looks like you wanted to blow me, Dune,” he says. “You should say so, when you want these things. I’m good at lots of things, but mind reading isn’t one of them.”

Dune moans again, fighting his jeans open—it’s not easy to unbutton and unzip with his wrong hand while he’s trying to suck cock at the same time. He’s managing more or less, though, and he’s hard doing it and yeah, maybe he did want to, at least a little. His jaw hurts but he doesn’t want to stop, as if Ladd would even let him.

Mostly jerking off just gets him frustrated, because it’s not like he can really do a good job of it when he’s trying to get Ladd off at the same time. But he can’t make himself stop now that he’s doing it, either, because he keeps thinking about how Ladd’s going to come and then he wants to, too.

When Ladd does, he shoots straight down Dune’s throat and Dune coughs, chokes a little again, and—fuck, it burns. He can feel the back of his mouth tingling with it. Is that normal?

“ _Dune_ ,” Ladd says, letting Dune up off his cock, petting Dune’s hair. “You’re so good to me, Dune, Just like one of my boys should be. So good.”

“Thanks,” Dune says, leaning back a little so he doesn’t have his face buried in Ladd’s crotch anymore. He doesn’t _think_ Ladd’s about to kick his ass for jerking off over this, even. And he’s pretty close, now that he isn’t so busy trying not to choke.

Ladd reaches for him, leaning forward, and Dune sort of flinches instinctively but Ladd gets him around the waist with one arm, grabbing hold of his jeans, and then pushes his hand out of the way so Ladd’s own can replace it.

“Oh fuck,” Dune says, “oh fuck,” pushing into Ladd’s hand, holy crap, _Ladd Russo is jerking him off_ —

“Ha, that’s a little much for a first date, isn’t it?” Ladd says, hauling him up with the hand clenched in the back of his jeans. Dune stumbles, trying to get up off the floor, pins and needles in his legs as Ladd pushes him onto the couch. “Come here, Dune. You want me to help you out, don’t you? Show you how much I appreciate your kindness. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes?” Dune says. That sounds like a yes question. Pretty clear. His back hits the arm of the couch a little too hard but Ladd’s hands are on his hips, holding him down so he’s not going anywhere, and Ladd’s got this look in his face like he’s fucking invincible. He is. He totally is. Dune would believe it about now.

And then Ladd just leans down like it’s no big thing at all and his mouth is hot and wet and he’s not careful with his teeth at _all_ and Dune’s clawing at the sofa with both hands, making this sound in his throat like a scared dog, and he’s thinking oh shit oh shit and then he’s not thinking anything at all, just pushing up against the pressure of Ladd’s hands and shaking and _coming in Ladd Russo’s mouth_ holy fuck.

Ladd sits up and leans forward, reaching past him as Dune tries not to cringe. He grabs for a plastic cup and spits into it before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “No hard feelings,” he says. “I like you, Dune, but maybe not that much, right?”

Dune laughs a little. “Hey, no problem,” he says. He feels a little sore and exhausted and like he just got away with murder. “Still a good time.”

“Of course it was,” Ladd says, and grins. “The best.” He gets up, stretches, and smirks down at Dune like he knows he’s right. “You okay to head back downstairs, or are you crashing there tonight?”

“I—” Dune thinks about it for a second. He _could_ go back downstairs, sure. He’s pretty sure he’s sober enough to manage a flight of stairs okay. But the idea of not bothering sounds pretty good. “Might stay here, if that’s cool.”

“Sure,” Ladd says. He’s pushing his jeans down, stepping out of them. Ladd Russo sleeps in his silk boxers. Dune’s never going to be able to unthink that. “Go on, get some shuteye.”

“Right.” Dune kicks his shoes off and squirms down the couch so he can actually stretch out on it. The craziness of this whole thing is starting to sink in. He just _traded blowjobs_ with _Ladd fucking Russo_. He needs to not think too hard about that. “Night, Ladd.”

“Good night, Dune,” Ladd says.

This has been a fucking awesome party, all right.

* * *

Omake:

There’s sunlight hitting his face at a funny angle, and Dune squints for a second, wondering where he is, before he remembers: Ladd’s room. Last night. Holy crap.

His back’s a little sore from sleeping on the couch, but his head’s fine. He’s never gotten bad hangovers. There’s a blanket over him, and a trash can sitting next to the couch with a notebook-paper sign taped to it: _Don’t puke on my floor_. Next to that is a labeled bottle of Gatorade, the red kind Ladd always has. _Drink me._

Dune smiles. It’s good, being one of Ladd’s boys.


End file.
